


Cinnamon, Chocolate, and Flour

by Esteliel



Series: Cookies [1]
Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Christmas Cookies, Established Relationship, Fluff, Intercrural Sex, Kitchen Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5114426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valjean knew too well how people read him as though he were a book: tattoos, skin, clothes, muscles; all spelling out the length of his sentence.</p><p>But Javert's lips against his skin did not spell out a past or the judge's words, not even a desire that would make Valjean wary if it only came in connection with the marks on his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cinnamon, Chocolate, and Flour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



Valjean did not often have time to cook, and baking was an even rarer occasion. Most years, the gleaming oven that got meticulously polished by his housekeeper every week was only turned on for the holidays.

It was two weeks until Christmas, and Jean Valjean had just turned off his oven. It was still hot, and the two sheets of carefully cut and decorated cookies he had pulled out were cooling on the counter. He had left quite a mess on the table. There was a light dusting of flour everywhere, a few drips of molten chocolate -- and a dollop of butter had hidden behind a bowl.

He sighed and raised a hand to wipe his brow, then grimaced when he realized that there was chocolate on his hand as well. What a mess he had made! He looked at the waiting cookies again. Certainly it wasn't worth all this effort -- he rather believed that Javert would have been more than satisfied with the bowls of cookies left by his housekeeper and Cosette, who seemed in league these days when it came to spreading holiday cheer.

Another Christmas song came on on the radio, and Valjean found himself humming along under his breath.

It did not feel real, at times. This what what normal people did. People who had not spent half their life in prison, and the other half on the run from the police. He had thought that this was not meant for him -- but now, strangely enough, he was no longer on the run. He was simply Jean Valjean, and still loved by his daughter. And -- strangest of all -- he was loved in other ways as well. As a man. As a -- his mind still stumbled over the concept. He, who had never even kissed another!

Now, he was loved as a -- boyfriend, Cosette called it, and it never failed to make him laugh. Partner, perhaps, if he had to put a word to it -- he did not mind that word so much. It was true these days, after all; and he liked sharing with Javert. Not even so much sharing his bed and his body, but this: sharing his life. Sharing his home, these private spaces which had only ever been his own, places where he could hide away from the world.

It had been a little frightening, at first. But it was good to have Javert here: to bring him a cup of coffee, to sit next to each other as they watched a movie, to cherish those small moments when Javert stretched and yawned as he woke, nearly too tall for the bed, or the way his brow creased almost comically when he sat over a crossword puzzle in the morning. All these little things made up Javert. Javert let him have those, and in turn Valjean let Javert have his, and now they had this place filled up with quiet moments. Even when he was alone, he was never lonely.

“Are you... baking?” 

There was incredulity in Javert's voice, and a touch of laughter. Valjean did not turn, although he felt embarrassed heat rush up his neck at being found like this. There was also a certain roughness in Javert's voice that he had come to recognize -- and then, Javert had entered silently, had crept up on him until he was close enough that Valjean could now feel warm breath against his nape, a moment before a kiss was pressed to his skin instead.

Valjean smiled helplessly to himself. It had been hard at first to grow used to sharing the house with another. Turning and finding Javert close, when it was Javert whom he had run from for so long. But over time, things got easier. And you'd have to give the man that: Javert had always tried. 

Javert was considerate. Javert was very good with him, Valjean couldn't deny that.

The moments when Javert would creep up on him were rare -- but when they happened, then usually like this: because Javert had been carried away watching him. Because Javert desired him, and had watched in silence until he felt the need to come closer and touch. And for those moments -- Javert's beard rough against his skin, the affectionate movement of his lips as he murmured his name, the solidity of his tall body that could feel so right against his -- Valjean had learned to trust, and to slowly release the old, instinctive fear.

Javert's teeth nipped at his neck, and Valjean laughed, fondly patting the hand that came around to play with the hemline of his shirt.

“It's nearly Christmas. They don't come close to Cosette's, of course. But it was something I wanted to do.” _To stand in this kitchen and listen to old Christmas songs on the radio, breathe in the scent of baking cookies and try to convince myself that this is real. That I'm no longer hiding, no longer on the run. That this is home. That you are home. That this is really real._

“I thought we could share them together tomorrow.”

Javert murmured agreement against his neck, and Valjean felt his skin prickle, goosebumps raised on his arms by the way Javert's hand now slid beneath his shirt.

“You taste like cinnamon.”

Valjean laughed again, then immediately felt sorry when he wondered whether it had been meant seductively. These things were still so new to both of them.

“Cinnamon, and chocolate. And flour.” Now Javert was laughing too, that quiet laugh that was little more than a huff of warm air against his skin.

“Sorry. I was just cleaning up. If you can wait a moment...”

“No. No, I fear this cannot wait a moment.”

Valjean felt happiness and anticipation twist in his stomach. Javert was still smiling against his skin, and his hand slid down to Valjean's pants. Valjean closed his eyes and tilted back his head, Javert's lips at his throat now while Valjean's smile grew wider. It was still almost impossible to believe that he was desired in such ways.

His pants were pushed down together with his boxers, and Javert's tongue was back tracing the lines of the tattoo on his neck, the familiar, slow swipes of heat that curved along the lines of the crown. 

Javert's lips often came to settle there. Valjean had never asked why. Javert had never seemed to be the type turned on by such things. They had both spent enough time in those complexes of bars and despair that Valjean did not think either of them would ever be able to indulge in fantasies. They were both too aware of the stark reality beneath the layers people donned there.

And yet, Javert's lips kept straying back to what to any other would be a mark -- a mar. Valjean knew too well how people read him as though he were a book: tattoos, skin, clothes, muscles; all spelling out the length of his sentence.

But Javert's lips against his skin did not spell out a past or the judge's words, not even a desire that would make Valjean wary if it only came in connection with the marks on his skin.

Javert's lips were always gentle, and when they were not, there was love even in bites that ever stayed careful.

“I'll help you clean,” Javert murmured, his voice rough in the way Valjean had come to know well. 

It always overcame Javert so quickly. Sometimes Valjean could not even see what brought it about. He had never even imagined such a thing -- but it made him feel warm and happy to know himself wanted in such a way. How strange! Javert's desire for him was not frightening at all -- although, sometimes, still a little overwhelming. Valjean did not know much of those things. He had never really felt much of that need himself. And now, now that he had come to know what need meant, and he'd slowly learned to give himself up to it wholeheartedly, there were days when he still could not help but feel disbelief when Javert's kisses would grow more desperate and his hands would stray for the third time in one day.

Sometimes, Valjean wondered if it was the age. Although Javert was not young either -- and Valjean had never minded indulging Javert. Even without the desperation that made Javert's hands tremble against his skin, it was good to know himself held and loved -- and desired.

Javert's hand dragged through the smear of butter. Then, Javert's fingers stroked up his thigh, sliding over his skin even as Javert breathed heavily into his ear.

Valjean swallowed, his eyes wide. _Silver Bells_ played on the radio. His gaze was fixated on the cookies with their icing and sprinkles, and Javert kept slowly, admiringly rubbing his hands all over the insides of his thighs.

Valjean's legs spread wider. His mouth felt dry. Javert breathed a little moan into his ear as his hands slowed down even more, and Valjean thought again of how he'd taken out the butter earlier that day. He had traced the lines of the recipe in the old cookbook that still had Cosette's name scrawled in it next to the stamp of the convent school, and he'd whisked the butter and had cut out cookies in the shapes of trees and angels and--

Javert's hands were still massaging his thighs. Valjean flushed to think of butter smeared _there_... the butter he had used to bake cookies they would eat tomorrow!

“Javert,” he groaned, half-dazed, his hands on the table for support. Javert made a breathless sound in answer, his fingers digging in a little deeper.

“Have I ever told you how I love the way your thighs feel?” he murmured against Valjean's ear, and Valjean couldn't hold back the laughter that bubbled up again at those words. How utterly impossible that anyone should ever say such words to him -- least of all Javert!

“So strong, and so soft, it's like -- God. I want to touch you all day.”

Valjean swallowed. “I'd -- you know I'd let you!” 

Javert's fingers pressed deeper, firm and loving, then slid a fraction upward while Javert sighed against his ear.

“Your ass too,” Javert then said, and again Valjean had to bite back an incredulous laugh. Not only because it still seemed so impossible to hear Javert admit such things, but also because the unlikely truth was that he knew the feeling of Javert's large hands squeezing his backside all too well.

So many impossibilities. And not only had these things all come true, but now Valjean was so used to these things that imagining a day when Javert wouldn't grow all flustered as he tried to come up with a new excuse to touch his ass seemed just as impossible.

“I was baking!” he protested again, not even sure why that was worth pointing out. But the cookies were still cooling, the radio had switched to a woman purring “Santa Baby,” and Javert was unzipping and pushing down his own pants. It was all wrong and made Valjean's cheeks heat -- and yet at the same time, he couldn't stop smiling.

“You're ridiculous, I hope you know that!” 

Javert's mouth was back at his throat again, hot and a little desperate. Javert was hard -- no surprise there, Valjean thought in fond amusement, but he also sighed when Javert's cock slid between his thighs, and straightened, pressing his thighs together until Javert groaned. It wasn't easy like this -- Javert was really too tall to make it easy, but if Valjean held on to the desk and rose to his toes, it worked well enough.

Anyway, it was too late to go and grab the stool he kept ready for the boxes stowed away on the highest shelf. He flushed again at the thought. That would be highly ridiculous as well.

Perhaps even more ridiculous than--

Javert groaned again. His hands slid up and down the outside of Valjean's thighs, squeezing a little while his hard cock slowly slid back and forth. Valjean tensed his muscles until Javert picked up his pace. He could feel Javert's cheek against the back of his head, warm and tacky with sweat. Sometimes there was the pleasant roughness of his beard, and Javert's hands still held on to his thighs, squeezing appreciatively while Valjean looked at the flour on the table, listened to the radio and desperately tried not to laugh with sheer, overwhelmed delight at the entire situation.

“You're ridiculous,” he repeated, smiling widely because the way Javert's large hands clutched so desperately at him brought its own special joy. _He_ did this to Javert. He made Javert moan absurd things about his ass into his ear and trap him against the table covered in flour like in some terrible porn movie, and--

“Oh!” he gasped, overcome when one of Javert's hands finally released him to wrap around his cock instead, warm and sure. He wouldn't have minded to wait until the evening -- it _was_ absurd to want this three times a day, and he tried to tell Javert that, but it was hard to speak when Javert wickedly rubbed his fingers along the tip of his cock, and how ludicrous was it that _Javert_ knew where to touch him to make his stomach drop and his spine arch, better than Valjean ever had?

Javert's other hand still smoothed up and down, fingers rubbing his flexing muscles while Javert groaned his appreciation against his skull.

"Like that. God, your thighs." Another moan escaped Javert, and Valjean exhaled and squeezed his legs together, looking down to where--

"Oh!" 

He had to close his eyes, because the sight was too much. Someone sang about mistletoe in the background, and there were Javert's long fingers wrapped around his cock. He could still feel the slide of Javert's own cock between his legs, hot and hard and slick from the butter, Javert's hand gripping his thigh so tightly now he thought his fingers might leave marks, and he didn't mind that, not at all, not when Javert moaned "Fuck" every time he tensed his muscles. Valjean still thought it was ridiculous to want this as often as Javert did -- but, right now, right here, this was good. So good. Not just the way Javert's own fingers held his dick, played with him in ways Valjean had never played with himself -- but the way Javert was warm against him, solid and sweaty and trembling a little with need. 

Something about Javert's impatience these days was charming. Perhaps because it was an impatience for him, only for him. It was as sweet as unnecessary because he'd give Javert this anytime he asked, for no other reason than that Javert's adoration was still so new and bewildering to him. It made his heart race in his chest, it made him smile and warmed his soul, and it filled this home with a love and affection he had believed would forever be impossible to attain for someone like him.

Javert's fingers tightened. His grasp was warm and slick from the butter. Valjean's eyes strayed to the cookies again, and he laughed once more for the sheer, exhilaration joy of having sex on the kitchen table while the kitchen smelled of cookies and there were Christmas songs on the radio. This was a sort of normal he'd never even thought about, back in those years when he'd known nothing but anger and despair at being forever denied the happiness of other people. But this was their normal now -- and it was better than anything he had wished for in those years.

He came all over Javert's hand, moaning and closing his eyes as he held on to the table for dear life, his muscles straining to hold himself upright and raised while pleasure spilled out of him. When it was done, he was panting open-mouthed, shaking with the effort to hold himself up while Javert was still at work between his thighs, desperate now. 

Valjean tensed his thighs as much as he could until Javert groaned again, and this was good too: the weight of Javert against his back, the heat of Javert between his legs, such overwhelmed, unguarded desperation from a man who had at last learned to let go of all pretenses of control in these quiet moments they shared. Then there was a rush of warmth and wetness between his legs, Javert continuing to fuck him with short, frantic jerks of his hips while the spurts of come made everything slick and messy, and Javert's lips were hot against Valjean's skin as he moaned his name as though something in him had broken. As though it were a prayer.

A moment later, Javert was sighing against the top of his head. Javert's hands rested against his thighs now, and Valjean tried to catch his breath.

He took in the kitchen. The radio was still playing. The cookies were still cooling. The room still smelled like sugar and vanilla and cinnamon.

Valjean laughed again, incredulous and happy that this could really be his now. Perhaps it didn't matter that neither of them knew how to do this like normal people. Surely they would learn it well enough together on their own.

Javert's lips trailed along his neck; then Valjean found himself turned and gently nudged to sit down on the table. There was still a smile on his face, even though he felt drained and rather ridiculous himself now when Javert moved to his knees.

Javert hadn't even had time to change yet. Javert's lips were on Valjean's thigh, his hands gently making his knees spread wider, and Valjean gasped and looked down at him: the white shirt and his tie and the tie clip that sat askew against his chest.

Javert was really good at changing as soon as he came home, and Valjean appreciated it. Some things were learned too deeply. Instinct took over when he was startled, and he knew that the heartbeat of frozen horror that followed when he turned a corner and found himself unexpectedly faced with that uniform was just as unsettling for Javert as it was for him.

But Javert hadn't had time to change today, and Valjean took a deep breath and forced himself to relax as he studied Javert. The scent of baking cookies must have lured him into the kitchen first thing, he told himself, and then he gasped again when Javert's hands slid up the inside of his legs to spread him even wider. Javert's hands were large enough to span half the length of his thighs. He looked down to where Javert's fingers rested against his skin, long and pale and touching him with reverence despite the smears of his own come that glistened on his thigh.

Javert's eyes were closed. His lips moved against his skin, and a soft moan escaped him before Valjean felt the heat of his tongue, licking at the mess of their mingled come and the residue of butter with slow swipes.

Valjean swallowed heavily. The uniform shirt, the tie, the clip, Javert on his knees -- he had dreamed of such things once, long ago. This was disturbingly close to the fantasies of revenge that many men would have shouted in impotent hate at men like Javert. He'd had his own anger and his own dreams of revenge then. They'd never quite taken this form -- and yet this was close enough to the fantasies of most that he felt himself unsettled by the view. Was this Javert's fantasy? Was this some sort of ill thought-out penitence? Certainly Javert must know that Valjean had no dreams of revenge, that he would never demand any--

Javert pressed a gentle kiss to his softening dick, breathing against it with delight for a moment before he licked up a wet stripe where a string of come had yet lingered. Then he looked up, and the memories and the uniform fell away, and there was nothing left but the rueful warmth in Javert's eyes.

“Sorry for the mess,” he murmured, and Valjean gave him another small, incredulous laugh and touched his cheek.

Javert moved on to his other thigh, licking slowly, breathing little sighs of adoration against his skin, and Valjean kept his hand at his cheek, his thumb rubbing gently along the line of his beard.

“This is really quite ridiculous,” he said again, and when Javert looked up, his mouth was messy and his fingers rubbed his thighs as though he still didn't have enough of him. On the radio, someone promised to be home for Christmas, and Valjean shook his head and laughed with sheer joy at the gifts they had been given, even as Javert shook his head in turn and then returned to his work. His mouth was hot and wet and reverent. There were white spots of flour in his beard where Valjean had touched him. 

No, this wasn't a dream. They were home. And there was really nothing ridiculous about it at all.


End file.
